the worst kind of distraction
by Kiyoshi Kitana
Summary: Alfred isn't very good at going to bed when he's told. [amecan][written for wolfsban@tumblr]


It's a nice room, Matthew notes as he swings the hotel door wide, suitcase and Kumajiro in tow. Not that Ludwig has ever set them up with anything less than nice, mind, even when his economy had slowed to the point of stagnation - but with a king-sized bed parallel to a large television, a loveseat placed neatly between them, and a desk in the corner, it's noteworthy. Even Alfred whistles as he breezes in behind Matthew, immediately making a beeline for, and plopping down on, the sofa.

"This is pretty comfy," Al says, patting and squishing the pillows of the loveseat between his fingers. Kicking off his boots, he plucks the television remote from Kumajirou's paws as the bear waddles up to him. "Now let's see what's on!"

"Don't you dare."

Index finger poised over the remote's 'power' button, Matthew's tone, more than his words themselves, stop Alfred in his tracks. "Huh?" Alfred blinks and looks over his shoulder to where Matt is standing behind him at the edge of their hotel bed.

Shimmying out of his jeans and boxers, Matt fixes Alfred with a cross look. "No TV."

This makes Al roll over onto his knees, lean his elbows on the back of the sofa. "What?" he says with a frown, trying to think of anything he did to make the Canadian angry. "Why not?"

"One, it's 11," Matthew replies, pointing to the alarm clock sitting atop a bedside nightstand. He bends, tugs his sleep shirt out of his luggage. "Two, last time you stayed up 'til 4AM and the beginning of our meeting was delayed by _three hours_. You remember that, don't you?"

"Oh. Yeah." Alfred huffs out a breath, chastened. Still, he peels himself off of the loveseat, pulling his shirt up and off as he stands. Shucking pants off next, he says, "You're no fun, Matty, you know that?"

Matthew smoothes his fingers through his hair, pulls his curls up into a small pony. "So you keep telling me."

They spend the next few minutes shuffling around in relative silence, putting extra clothes into drawers, plugging in phones. Matt crawls into bed first, leaving the last lamp to Alfred. He stretches out flat beneath the blankets with a sigh. The bed is just the right mix of firm and soft and cool; a pleasant sinking feeling settles under his skin, dissipating when the bed dips under Al's weight.

Rolling over on his side, Matthew lets Al pull him to the center of the bed. He shifts so Alfred can wrap his arms around him, parts his thighs so Alfred can wedge his leg between them, fitting them more comfortably together. The weight of Al's arm slung over his side is familiar and comforting and he presses himself back into the American's warmth, _good night_ working its way past his lips in a drowsy mumble.

He feels, more than hears, Alfred's response in the rumbling of his chest.

Matthew has nearly dozed off completely when a tickle across the back his neck pulls him back to the edge consciousness. He feels Al move behind him, the blonde's palm smoothing over his stomach to rest on his bare thigh, and another little tickle on his neck when he realizes-_oh_.

He doesn't pull away, because he's too lazy and too comfortable, but Matthew does still the fingers drumming lightly against his thigh with his own. "Sleep," he murmurs to Al, lacing their fingers together.

"Sorry. Trying," Alfred whispers back. He licks his lips out of habit, presses them to the exposed skin of Matthew's neck in apology. Al exhales, feeling Matt shiver in his arms as his breath ghosts over dampened skin. He expects the Canadian to say something else, yet nothing comes but a sleepy hum of contentedness.

Burying his nose in the fine wisps of hair at Matthew's nape, Al tries to focus on the darkness and his brother's even breathing. It doesn't work. His body tingles with the need to move and the longer the blonde stills himself, the worse it becomes. Not to mention that Alfred is acutely aware of the curve of Matthew's ass nestled against his groin; aware of the firm, strong, _soft_ thighs his own are encased between.

Slowly, Alfred slides his fingers free of Matt's; he pauses when Matt shifts against him, thinking he's roused him. When it becomes clear that Matthew is simply burrowing into his embrace, Alfred moves his arm, working his hand underneath Matt's shirt to lay his bare palm against the rise and fall of the sleeping blonde's belly. Better situated, Alfred tries to think of the most boring thing he could do to put himself to sleep.

Counting sheep? Backwards from a thousand? Counting sheep backwards from a thousand?

_That might work._

He's somewhere around nine hundred and forty sheep when Matthew jerks in his grasp, pressing back abruptly against his crotch. Al huffs, mildly irritated even as his dick twitches with renewed interest, and whispers his brother's name. Instead of an answer Alfred gets Matthew relaxing against him as suddenly as he started, softly snoring on an exhale and subconsciously shifting to further accommodate Alfred's leg sandwiched between his own.

For a moment, Alfred entertains the idea of detangling himself from Matthew and jerking a quick one out in the bathroom. He'd be able to nod off after a lessening of the want coiling in his belly, pulling him tense and tight. The idea is pushed aside when Matt, in a moment of lucidity, tugs Al's arm up, moving America's hand from his stomach to lay flat against his chest. Pushed aside because he's far too tempted instead to gently push his hips forward, and wedge his clothed cock further between Matthew's bare ass cheeks. He feels the slow thump-thump of Matt's heartbeat under his palm, out of sync with the throb he feels in his cock and balls.

Mouth pressed to the base of Matthew's neck, flush together from shoulder to knee, Alfred rubs himself against his brother gingerly, hyper-aware of every place they touch. Little jolts of pleasure pulse through him, body tingling with the effort of not grinding hard against Matt's ass to completion. Every tiny roll of his hips teases more than it satisfies, and he's torn; part of Al desperately wants to wake the blonde in his arms, kiss away Matt's sleepiness until he's as riled up as he is. The other part of Alfred likes this - likes the challenge of trying to come quietly and unnoticed, while his brother urges him on with sleepy shivers and breaths.

In a fit of daring, he splays his fingers marginally wider, fingertip finding one of Matthew's nipples in the dark. Al feels it harden just from the pressure of his finger, reacting to familiar touch. Careful, measured, Alfred slides the pad of his fingertip over Matt's nipple, back and forth. Back, when Matt squirms in his arms; forth when Matt's breathing speeds up, hitching on drowsy little moans.

Al's cock throbs with every unintentional wiggle of Matthew's hips, desire winding up tighter in his core as he teases his brother; himself. What once was simply a bid for release is now a game; how far can he push before Matthew wakes up, hot and horny and flushed in the dim moonlight? America presses open-mouthed kisses to the expanse of skin in front of him, drawing nonsense with the tip of his tongue. He sucks, gently, and a muffled groan vibrates in Matt's chest and throat, through Al's fingers and lips.

Limbs trembling, Alfred stills when his name slips out on Matthew's next breath. He lies motionless, sucking his lower lip between his teeth to temper his own panting.

"Al," Canada repeats, and though his voice is low and laced with sleep, it's undeniably alert.

"Yeah?" Alfred answers slowly, trying to mimic the same sleepiness he hears from Matthew. He leans away, watches through lowered lashes as Matt twists in a way that allows their gazes to meet, back half pressed into Alfred, half into the bed.

Taking hold of Al's hand, Matthew leads it back down his body, linking their fingers together before pressing Alfred's palm to his crotch. "Here," he says, rocks his hips up for emphasis. Matt's cock is hard, the tip sticky with precome as he guides Al's thumb over it.

"I thought you were sleeping," Al says sheepishly, closing his fingers around Matt's cock and squeezing lightly when the pressure of the blonde's hand prompts him to. He hadn't _really_ meant to wake Matt, despite how hot the idea had been moments ago, how his cock is still hard from the thought of it. He flexes his fingers around Matt's dick, squeezing again.

Matthew exhales sharply, hips jerking, before he peels Alfred's hand away, rolls over so that he's facing America properly.

"I was," Matt says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Al's boxers by feel. He tugs them down, freeing Al from the confines of the thin 're close enough that Matt's eyes would cross if he tried to focus, that the distance between their lips can be measured with the flick of his tongue. Still, they can get closer; so Matt does, until his cock lines up snugly with Al's, legs overlapping, palm pressed to the small of Al's back. His lips brush Alfred's as he continues, "Until a certain someone woke me up."

"Oops."

It's a terrible response in the way of apologies, but that doesn't stop it from being the first thing out of Alfred's mouth. Nor does it stop him from sealing his mouth over Matthew's, groaning when Matt yields eagerly, tongue meeting Al's halfway. He brings his hand up to cup the back of Matt's neck, just holds on as the Canadian grinds against him, hot and thick. Al doesn't try to still his hips this time, letting Matt pull him into a rhythm, little shocks of pleasure zipping through him with every press and drag of Matt's cock over his own.

In the darkness Alfred's focus narrows down to Matt's tongue sliding over his; the way Matt moves against him, trembling, increasingly erratic; the heat coiling in his groin, driving the anticipation fluttering in his belly. He wants to come, wants to see Matt come, is so close, has been so close for so long he feels nearly delirious with it. Pushing his tongue against Matt's, Al rocks desperately against him, fingers sliding into blonde hair to grip and hold and _tug_.

Matthew's moan is loud, sudden, surprised as he unravels in Al's arms, hips stuttering, blunt fingernails digging sharply into Al's lower back. Alfred groans Matt's name, desire thrumming through him as Matt ruts against him; everything slick and sticky between them as Matt comes all over him and he follows, pressing his face into the curve of his brother's throat.

For a few moments, their breathing, slowing, is the only sound in the room. Sensitive and damp, aftershocks of pleasure ripple through Alfred as Matthew lazily detangles himself, pushing their hot blankets away. He can hear the tired smile in Matthew's voice when the Canadian says, "Happy now?"

Alfred flops on his back, grins up at the ceiling. He still tingles everywhere Matt's body pressed up against him. "Mmm, yeah."

"Good," Matt says, half of the word coming out on a yawn. He reaches over, tugs on Al's hand. "Shower?"

It's not a bad idea.


End file.
